Chapter 16 - What We Leave Behind

[13,477 Words]

October 24th, 1975, Friday  

On the Matter of Runes  

How complex are runes? 

Very. 

They are not letters, not really — not the way Latin is letters, or Greek, or even Cyrillic. Runes are older than language as Polaris understood it. Older, too, than intention. 

Each one is a vessel: a shape, a sound, a story, a spell. To read a rune is to read history layered like sediment — phonetic, symbolic, magical. Sometimes prophetic. Always dangerous. 

There isn't just one alphabet. There are many. Elder Futhark. Younger. Anglo-Saxon. Northumbrian. Carved, burned, etched into stone and bone and bark until time itself remembered them. 

Some runes guard. Some grant. Some cut. Some conceal. 

But the true complexity lies not in the forms themselves — those strange, slanted marks with names like Ansuz and Eiwaz — but in their interplay. Their arrangement. Their silence. 

Because runes, above all, are a language of intention. 

A single rune may speak, but runes together conspire. 

They bind, they veil, they echo. 

They twist into bindrunes — sigils made of two or more collapsed into one. They fracture into cipher runes — encrypted languages known only to the hand that shaped them. They nest into matrices — magic folded in on itself like a closed eye. 

Numbers appear. Grids. Cross-references. These are not idle markings, but architecture — scaffolding for thought cast in spell-form. 

To master runes is not to memorize them. 

It is to feel their weight. 

To enter the structure, they create. 

To risk getting lost in a language that does not care if you understand it — only whether you respect it. 

And somewhere in that structure — in that cipher of spirals and scorched glyphs — Polaris had felt something watching back. 

"Uh, Polaris?" 

He woke with his cheek pressed to parchment. 

A deep crease bisected a half-sketched rune where his head had slumped forward, ink smudged faintly beneath his jaw. 

For a moment, he wasn't sure what time it was. What day. What year. 

His back ached. His neck was stiff. 

Polaris blinked hard, sat up slowly. His hands were cramped from how tightly he'd been gripping his quill. On the desk in front of him was his copied page: spirals, bindrunes, matrices, half-formed guesses and arrowed questions. 

None of it made more sense than it had earlier in the day. 

Polaris sighed — a long, slow exhale that felt like it had been waiting in his chest for hours. 

His limbs ached as he pushed back from the desk. The chair creaked in protest. His spine cracked. He winced. 

"Merlin," he muttered, voice gravelled from disuse. 

He began gathering his scattered notes — some half-crumpled, others smudged or flecked with ink. A few pages had nearly slipped off the desk's edge, caught only by the corner of a book he'd borrowed from the library (and most likely wasn't meant to have borrowed). 

The parchment made a dry, papery rustle in the quiet as he shuffled them into a stack. Carefully, he slotted his quill into the cup beside his candle stub and blew out the flame with a soft breath. The smoke curled upward, faintly blue. 

From behind him, a whisper: 

"You're going to turn into a book at this rate." 

Polaris turned, blearily. 

His roommate Elias was standing by the door, hair flattened on one side, wand tucked behind his ear like he hadn't realised he was still holding it. His slippers were mismatched. There was a faint, amused squint to his expression as he padded softly back toward his bed. 

Polaris rubbed at his eyes. "What time is it?" 

"Past three," Elias whispered. "You've been out for a while I went to the loo and saw you sleeping. Figured I shouldn't let you die of ink poisoning face-down on your desk." 

"…Thanks." 

Polaris glanced down at the crease mark running diagonally across his copied rune page and scrubbed at his jaw, grimacing faintly at the ink smear there. 

"Were you working on that since you got back?" 

Polaris nodded, stifling a yawn. "Yeah, after dinner. I must've sat down right after. Forgot to… do anything else, apparently." 

Elias snorted quietly and flopped back into his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "Mental. Absolutely mental. You ever sleep like a normal person?" 

If there was one thing Polaris' roommates knew about him at this point was his odd sleep schedule. 

Polaris didn't answer that. Mostly because he didn't have an answer that wasn't no.  

He hovered by his bed, still slightly dazed, half-thinking he should re-alphabetise the notes he'd just gathered — then deciding against it. He tossed them gently onto the trunk at the foot of his bed and turned back toward the darkened room. 

Elias's voice came again, muffled but sly. 

"You keeping tabs on the season, by the way?" 

Polaris, who had been halfway to crawling under his blankets, paused. 

"Which season?" 

Elias made a faint noise of offence. " Quidditch, obviously." 

Polaris rolled his eyes but sank into bed. "Yes. I'm aware your Harpies are playing on Saturday first week of November." 

"Against the Falcons. It's huge. I heard Gwenog might be starting this time." 

"Gwenog's always 'might be starting,'" Polaris muttered, voice dry with sleep. "And if she does, it'll be three penalties and a broken nose before the first ten minutes." 

"That's called passion. " 

"That's called reckless endangerment. " 

He could barely see the grin on Elias' face. "Still think your Puddlemere lot are going to claw their way to the top?" 

"We're third in the league and we don't hospitalise half our own team every other match, so yes." 

"Delusional." 

Polaris huffed a soft, tired laugh and let his eyes close. The warmth of his bed was already pulling him under again. 

And then, without meaning to, Elias' voice reminded him of someone else. 

Corvus. 

Anytime Quidditch came up between them, Corvus lit up like someone had cast Lumos behind his ribs. He had opinions, strong ones, shouted across corridors and scribbled into the margins of homework essays. Ballycastle Bats — that was his team. He wore their pin like it was a family crest and took personal offence anytime Polaris so much as implied their strategy was "erratic at best." 

They'd argued through all of September. Corvus defending their new Beater like he was blood. Polaris insisting that no amount of dramatics could make up for a Keeper who couldn't catch a Quaffle with a Summoning Charm. 

But Corvus was passionate. Not in the same way Elias was — Elias talked because he always had something to say. Corvus talked because he couldn't not.  

And even if Polaris pretended to roll his eyes, he couldn't deny how infectious it was. How easy it was to get pulled into the debates, the player stats, the team drama, the league tables scrawled on napkins in the Great Hall. 

How could Polaris not follow the season. He had great hope that Puddlemere wouldn't disappoint him this season, their last game last week had ended in victory though it was too close. 320–280. 

Their whispered bickering faded into a comfortable quiet — one that settled like a well-worn jersey between them, soft and familiar. 

But sleep came slowly. 

Even as his body relaxed, his mind remained caught in the weave of symbols and spirals. 

He'd thought he understood runes — or at least the basics. Leisurely reading had filled in the surface knowledge: names, shapes, phonetics. He'd memorized the neat rows of Elder Futhark like he might memorize a language chart or a Potions table. 

But this — what he'd stumbled into tonight — was something else entirely. 

The deeper layers unravelled like thread pulled from a tapestry. 

Some scholars believed runes also functioned as magical numerals — each with a frequency, a weight, a consequence. In the margin of a borrowed page, he'd seen the word gematria scrawled beside a grid that resembled a logic puzzle and a ritual circle all at once. 

And then there were the bindrunes. 

Twisted symbols, fused and overlapping. Two runes — or three, or five — tangled into a single, impossible glyph. Sometimes decorative. Sometimes deceptive. Sometimes deliberate, but more often, Polaris suspected, half-lost to time. The question was never just what it said — but how many things it was saying at once.  

He thought he recognized the rune for 'journey' — Raidho — etched into a diagram from an 11th-century Icelandic stave, but it had been altered. Not broken, exactly. Twisted. Fused with another he didn't recognize. Its arms had curled in on themselves like a closed door. 

Around it, numbers spiralled like orbiting moons: 

9. 24.

He'd stared at those numbers for too long — long enough to start seeing them in his notes, in the page margins, in the pattern of wand flicks etched into spell diagrams. 

A separate grid in the margin cross-referenced those numbers with other runes — ones he hadn't seen yet. Or hadn't realized he'd seen. 

Maybe they weren't numbers at all. Maybe they were coordinates. A pattern. A date. A code. Something buried in the layers. 

Polaris shifted under the covers, restless now. His fingers curled unconsciously against the edge of his sheet, still thinking through angles and translations. 

Polaris turned onto his side and tried, again, to sleep. 

But even as his breath deepened, and the warmth of the blankets finally anchored him back to stillness, a part of his mind remained caught in that spiralling web of symbols. 

Wondering what it meant. 

And whether it knew he was trying to understand. 

October 25th, 1975, Saturday  

Polaris was tired. 

Not the kind of tired that could be shaken off with Black Rose Brew and a morning breeze, but the kind that lingered behind the eyes and weighed down the limbs like waterlogged robes. His handwriting had grown steadily messier as the session wore on, a scrawl of half-formed letters that barely clung to the margins of the parchment spread before him. A good portion of the ink was still wet—he'd forgotten to blot it. 

His left hand cradled his head, thumb pressed beneath his cheekbone, fingers curled into his hair. He hadn't meant to lean so far forward, but it was the only way to keep his eyes from shutting. His brows had begun to pinch without him realizing it, the way they always did when his eyelids felt too heavy to hold up. 

He'd woken up far too early. Voluntarily, if one could believe that. 

He'd wanted to finish copying the last few notes of that borrowed book— " Field Anomalies and Spell Residue", a forgotten Department of Mysteries volume — before returning it to Madam Pince. So, he'd risen at dawn, climbed down to the library before breakfast, and scribbled until his wrist ached. Now, he was running on nerves and determination. Mostly nerves. 

The parchment in front of him lay blank where his last sentence trailed off. He hadn't written a word in—how long had it been? 

His quill still sat in his right hand, poised but forgotten, while he stared glassy-eyed at the debate unfolding on the platform ahead. Sixth-years. One side arguing with sharp indignation; the other cool and rhetorical. The topic was loaded: Should magical creatures with near-human intelligence—centaurs, merfolk, goblins—be granted full legal personhood under wizarding law?  

Speciesism. Historical oppression. The blurred line between sapience and status. It wasn't a question with a clean answer, and Polaris hated questions without clean answers. 

That was probably why he was still awake. 

A Hufflepuff girl with plaited hair was arguing passionately that centaurs had their own cultures, languages, and governance systems. "We treat them as inferior because they live outside our laws, and they live outside our laws because we treat them as inferior," she said, voice rising. "That's not neutrality. That's neglect." 

Polaris went still for a beat. That was—he should write that down. 

He shifted, sat up straighter, dipped his quill in ink and jotted a half-formed note. His hand shook slightly. His eyes burned. A part of him still longed—achingly—for a pillow and quiet, but another part, deeper and sharper, clung to the debate like a tether. 

Because this was interesting. Messy, yes. Rife with contradictions and deeply entrenched bias—but real. 

Just two days ago, he'd been the one on that platform. He had ended up winning. Officially. Five House Points and a spot on the club leaderboard, though Polaris had also been voted Best Speaker of the Week by his peers — a fact he still didn't know what to do with. 

Apparently, winning a Mock Trial earned you points if it was good enough. Sometimes recognition. At the end of term, the top name on the leaderboard received the Silver Stag Pin — a badge of persuasive excellence said to have once been worn by the current Minister of Magic, Harold Minchum. Supposedly, it glowed faintly when its wearer lied. 

Probably just a rumour. Probably. 

And unlike the endless formalities of House expectations or the unspoken rules of hallway politics, this had rules he could follow. Evidence. Structure. Language as a weapon wielded openly. 

Someone else took the floor—a Slytherin boy, deliberate and slow-spoken, countering with legal precedent from the Department of Magical Creatures, citing the infamous Centaur Liaison Office as proof of "unwillingness to integrate." 

Polaris exhaled sharply through his nose. That wasn't proof—it was bureaucracy dressed up as diplomacy. 

He scribbled that, too. Barely legible. 

His head dipped forward slightly, and he jerked it back up. 

At the front of the room, Sabine Lay stood with her hands clasped loosely behind her back, one foot slightly angled as if she'd been born to supervise ancient courtrooms instead of Hogwarts clubrooms. She didn't interrupt the flow of the sixth-years' arguments, but her presence hovered. 

When the last speaker finished and the platform fell silent, she gave a single, unimpressed clap. 

"Well," she said. "No one set the podium on fire. Promising start." 

There were a few nervous chuckles from the younger years. 

"And now," she added, already walking toward the rows of seated students, "Hot Seat." 

Polaris barely reacted. He was looking at his notes, sort of. He was mostly thinking about the runes that were written around strange sequence of numbers he had a good look at this morning when he had finished copying the hidden notes that appeared at the tap of his wand. 

"You there, Miss Pennyfeather—what flaw do you see in the affirmative's argument?" 

Polaris' housemate Agnes looked somewhat startled to have been chosen first. She hesitated, then gave a fumbling answer about romanticizing centaur culture without addressing internal conflicts. 

Polaris, still somewhat distracted, didn't notice his name until Sabine's voice landed louder. 

"Mr. Black." 

His head snapped up. 

Sabine arched a brow. "If you could ask one question to the negative side, what would it be?" 

There was a pause. A longer one than anyone expected. 

Polaris stared at her, processing the question with a delay that made his ears go a little warm. His mind shuffled frantically—debate, sixth-years, the negative side... what had they said again? 

"Could you repeat the question?" he asked, voice low but steady, even if a little hoarse from sleep. 

Sabine didn't sigh, but her pause was its own punctuation. "If you could ask one question to the negative team—what would it be?" 

Polaris sat up, fingers curling slightly on the edge of his desk. This time, he listened to the silence left behind by the debate. He let the logic play back in his head: legal precedent, unwillingness to integrate, departmental definitions, the term "beings" as a legal category. 

He blinked once. Twice. 

Then he spoke. 

"If the classification system is meant to reflect magical creatures' ability to coexist with wizarding society…" he began slowly, "then what safeguards are in place to ensure the system doesn't just reflect our prejudice instead?" 

Silence followed. 

Polaris looked down again, eyes flicking to his parchment. 

Across the row, one of the Hufflepuff first-years made a face, eyebrows squished together as though Polaris had just spoken in a very polite, very confusing form of Parseltongue. A Ravenclaw boy muttered under his breath, "What does that even mean?" though his quill moved a little faster after saying it, like he was hoping to figure it out mid-scribble. 

Someone in the back whispered, not unkindly, "Of course he'd ask something like that." 

Not out of malice, perhaps just resignation. 

Two seats down, a third year Slytherin girl leaned toward her friend and said, a touch too loudly, "Well, I was proud of my question. Not anymore." 

A few snickers followed. 

But not everyone was laughing. 

One of the third-years—an older Gryffindor girl with neatly pinned braids and a colour-coded note system—stared at Polaris like he'd just shifted the shape of the room. She glanced at her own question, the one she'd written down and mentally rehearsed before the session. It had something to do with interspecies diplomacy and outdated census forms. It was fine. Sensible. 

But not that . 

She frowned slightly, then looked back at him, her expression unreadable. 

Sabine arched an eyebrow. "Affirmative or negative—would either side like to field that?" 

A pause. 

Then one of the sixth-years from the negative bench stood — a boy in Slytherin colours, with ink stains across his cuffs and a slightly nervous edge to his posture. 

He cleared his throat. "Well… technically, the Department claims the definitions are based on observed behaviour and intent—creatures who've attacked humans without provocation, or who resist regulation, tend to fall under 'beast' classifications. But—" he hesitated, "you're right. There's not much transparency around how that's enforced. Or challenged." 

The girl who'd argued for the affirmative side leaned forward, visibly interested. "So the system can reflect prejudice, whether or not it's meant to." 

The Slytherin boy gave a reluctant nod. "In theory, yes. It depends who's doing the observing. And what they already believe." 

That seemed to land heavily across the room. 

Sabine said nothing for a beat. Then, "Thank you, Mr. Black. Miss Ogundele, same question." 

Polaris barely heard the rest of the responses. 

The weight behind his eyes had turned into a slow, pulsing ache. He stayed upright through the end of the session—out of habit more than will—but by the time the chairs scraped back, and voices rose, he was already somewhere else entirely. 

He didn't go to his dorm. 

Instead, he went where his feet often carried him when his thoughts refused to settle. 

 — ❈ — 

Polaris had a headache blooming just above his brows, the kind that pulsed behind the eyes and made the light in the library seem sharper than it was. He should've gone to bed. He knew he should've gone to bed. 

And yet, there he was—curled at the far end of a long table in the library's west wing, the book Runes Beyond the Basics spread open before him like some sacred script. His handwriting trailed beside the diagrams in precise, almost too-neat lines, betraying the slow rhythm of someone trying to stay awake through sheer willpower. 

The chapter was on Runic Grids—layered arrays of ancient symbols used in magical encryption, spell reinforcement, and protective enchantments. The text delved into spatial harmonics, the way certain runes amplified or neutralized each other when arranged in three-dimensional structures. 

Fascinating. Theoretically. 

Practically? Right now, it was a war between his interest and his eyelids. 

He scrawled something in the margins— "Fehu conflicts with Thurisaz if layered on the same axis"—then blinked at it like the words might slide off the page. 

Beside him, Kalen Nott didn't say anything. Hadn't, since Polaris sat down. 

He was reading a different book entirely—something sleeker, darker—his posture relaxed but spine straight. Observing more than reading, really. Kalen's gaze moved like a cat's—smooth, slow, never still for long. 

The silence between them wasn't awkward. It simply was . 

Until Kalen tilted his head a fraction, voice low. 

"Since when are you into runes?" 

Polaris didn't look up right away. He finished his note, underlined something, and only then shrugged. 

"I don't know. New thing." He flipped the page. "I like knowing how they work. They're... structured. Everything has meaning, has a placement and context. The power's in the pattern." 

Kalen didn't respond immediately, but Polaris could feel the subtle shift of him glancing over. 

No matter how many times Kalen tried to beat the allegations of his nosiness, it just didn't match with his actions. 

The boy had a talent for looking utterly disinterested while simultaneously absorbing everything within ten feet. If there was a conversation being whispered three shelves away, Kalen probably already had a mental transcript and a working theory. 

Polaris didn't call him out on it. He simply flipped the page. 

"You know Ancient Runes is a third-year subject," Kalen murmured. 

Polaris turned the book slightly toward himself, as if shielding it. "Didn't say I was taking it." 

"Mm." A dry hum of scepticism. "Just studying it for fun, then?" 

"There are worse things to be ahead on." 

Kalen's mouth twitched—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but something adjacent. "You planning to start duelling in Elder Futhark?" 

Polaris exhaled faintly through his nose. "You'd be surprised how many protective spells are reinforced by runes. Wards. Encryption. Spatial anchoring. Being familiar with them isn't exactly useless." 

Another pause. Then Kalen leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting back to his own book. 

"Alright..." Kalen mumbled. 

Polaris didn't say exactly what he was thinking. 

Instead, he only let his quill scratch back into motion. The rune grids weren't going to decipher themselves. 

He couldn't do any more. Couldn't keep his eyes open. 

Barely twenty minutes later, Polaris was curled up in bed, the duvet balled in his fist, wrapped snugly around him like a shield. 

Only two of his roommates were still in the dorm—Felix and Charlie, both fast asleep. The others were off somewhere, probably out enjoying their Saturday. 

It was nearly 6 p.m. when Polaris finally stirred—woken not by his own will, but by Felix Kim standing stiffly at his bedside, arms folded, and expression caught somewhere between resigned and apologetic. 

"Sorry," Felix said, not sounding particularly sorry. "Avery's been to the door three times now. This time, he told me to just wake you up ." 

Polaris squinted blearily at him; his head still fogged from sleep. "Did he say why?" 

"No," Felix said, tone dry. "Just that you should come outside . He didn't seem especially interested in waiting for a polite moment." A pause. "Also, Yaxley was there too. Didn't talk. Just looked very… invested in his fingernails." 

Polaris groaned and dragged the duvet tighter around himself like it might shield him from obligation. "Tell them I'm dead." 

Felix raised an eyebrow. "I did. Twice. He didn't believe me." 

There was a beat of silence. Felix looked like he wanted to leave but also like he was stuck in some diplomatic no-man's-land. He adjusted his perfectly pressed collar. "Look, I don't mind telling people off, but I'm not your owl." 

Polaris sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "I know. Sorry." 

Felix softened a little at that, then added, matter-of-factly, "He was pacing. You should probably deal with him before he tries to climb through a window or something." 

With a final sigh of protest, Polaris threw back the duvet and swung his legs out of bed, cold air hitting his skin like a slap. 

"Fine," he muttered. "But if he bites, I'm blaming you." 

Felix gave a shrug, already halfway back to his bed. "Just try not to start a diplomatic incident. My parents would be thrilled ." 

Polaris didn't rush. 

He showered slowly, dressed deliberately, and sat on the edge of his bed long enough to feel vaguely human again. His stomach growled — which was, frankly, the only reason he was upright at all. He dragged a brush through his hair, tugged on his boots, and took his time with every button like he was stalling for a meeting he didn't ask to attend. 

By the time he reached the entrance to the common room, the torches in the corridor were already flickering with that late-evening amber glow. 

Polaris hesitated for a second — then stepped out. 

Corvus Avery was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed, a frown ready to launch. He perked up the moment he spotted him. 

"There you are!" Corvus said, like Polaris had been missing for weeks instead of a few hours. "I knew you were alive. Why weren't you at lunch?" 

Polaris blinked slowly, like he was still buffering. 

"I was asleep." 

Corvus threw his hands up. " All day ? What are you, a cat? You missed lunch ." 

"I'll survive." 

"That's debatable. You're basically made of black tea and spite." 

Bastian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but watchful. He gave Polaris a once-over — not judging, just measuring. 

"You don't look like you slept well," Bastian said quietly. "Nightmares?" 

Polaris shook his head. "No. Just… tired." 

At that, Bastian's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Did something trigger it?" 

Corvus, clearly not listening, interrupted, "Can we not start with the brooding Riddle mystery today? Can we just go eat ? The hall's open for dinner and I've been waiting ages to go because I didn't want to leave without you." 

Polaris gave him a sideways look. "You saw me yesterday ." 

"Yes, and it's been tragic since." Corvus flung a dramatic hand against the stone wall. "Anyway, I waited. I'm starving. Let's move." 

"Give me a second." Polaris shifted his weight, voice still quiet. "I need to write something down. Just a thought that came to me when I woke up." 

Bastian tilted his head slightly. "Related to the notes you found?" 

"Yeah. I think I missed something." Polaris pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's like trying to read a book someone wrote on a moving train—only I'm the train." 

"You're not allowed to be this cryptic before food," Corvus groaned. "Come on, bring your haunted notebook and think while chewing. Please." 

Bastian finally moved, placing a hand briefly on Polaris's shoulder before letting it drop. "Write it down if you need to. We'll wait." 

Polaris nodded, quietly grateful. He pulled a folded bit of parchment from his pocket, then took his wand from his sleeve and tucked it lightly under his chin — balancing it there absently as he leaned against the cool stone wall. His hand moved quickly, scribbling notes in slanted lines with his self-inked quill. 

Corvus sighed so loudly it echoed. "You're both insufferable. This is why I have ulcers." 

"You don't have ulcers," Polaris muttered absently, scribbling something down. 

"I will," Corvus huffed. "And when I do, I'll name it after you. Ulcera Polaris . Very rare. Very inconvenient. No known cure except biscuits and constant validation." 

Polaris didn't even look up from his parchment. "Sounds like a you problem." 

"Oh, wow ," Corvus said, clutching his chest. "I drag myself across the castle, starve myself waiting for you, mourn your apparent death—" 

"You saw me yesterday ," Polaris reminded him. 

"Time is relative ," Corvus shot back. "Grief doesn't follow a schedule." 

Bastian, leaning casually against the wall, said without missing a beat, "Neither does your sense of proportion." 

Corvus pointed at him. "Seriously?" 

"I'm not defending your fictional ulcer." 

"Fine. When I get one, I'll name it after both of you. Ulcera Bastilaris. Side effects include feeling abandoned and dramatically underfed." 

Polaris finished the last word and folded his parchment with a sigh. "Can we please go before he starts naming symptoms?" 

"I already have. Symptom one: hunger. Symptom two: betrayal." 

Polaris tucked the folded parchment into his pocket, then brought his wand to his palm. "If we hadn't known each other since we were toddlers," he muttered, "I would've gone out of my way to avoid you." 

Corvus gasped like he'd been slapped. "You wound me. Mortally. Right in the ulcer." 

Bastian, without glancing at Corvus, said, "Symptom three: excessive exaggeration." 

"I hope the ulcer devours me," Corvus declared. "Then maybe you two will finally feel remorse ." 

Polaris gave him a sidelong glance. "Remorse, no. Silence, maybe. Worth the trade." 

Corvus pressed a hand dramatically to his forehead. "Unbelievable. This is the emotional support I get." 

"You're not emotionally supported," Bastian said mildly. "You're just too loud to ignore." 

Polaris was already heading for the corridor. "Come on, Ulcera Bastilaris. Let's get you fed before the whining becomes fatal." 

Corvus, never one to pass up a theatrical exit, swept after them with a groan. "I'm keeping score, you know. One day, when I'm even more powerful and universally admired—probably with my own chocolate frog card—I'll remember this cruelty." 

Polaris didn't even glance back. "You already believe you're all those things." 

"And that's the only reason we tolerate you," Bastian added, completely deadpan. 

Corvus lit up like he'd been complimented. "See? He gets it." 

Polaris slowed. 

Up ahead, a knot of students had formed near the entrance alcove, just past a row of suits of armour. Voices were rising — sharp, urgent, unmistakably hostile. 

"Someone's throwing a fit," Corvus muttered, intrigued as ever by chaos he hadn't caused. "Should we be good citizens and investigate?" 

Bastian rolled his eyes. "You mean gawk like everyone else?" 

"I mean observe the unfolding tragedy of interpersonal relations. For academic purposes." Corvus was already veering toward the crowd. 

Polaris and Bastian didn't exactly follow, they were dragged , Corvus had his hands wrapped around their wrists as he pushed himself through. 

They pushed through the last few onlookers — just in time to hear it. 

"I said watch where you're going!" 

Elora Parkinson stood with perfect posture, arms crossed, pale green eyes narrowed to slits. Every hair was in place, every ribbon immaculate — and yet she looked ready to hex someone into the wall. She looked less ruffled than personally offended by the concept of disruption . 

Beside her stood Eliza Burke, calm and pristine as ever. Not a hair out of place. Not a muscle tensed. 

And across from them stood Willow Smyth, red-cheeked with fury, and Aurelia Potter, chin tilted like she was already in a duel. Between them, a Gryffindor girl with auburn hair and wide brown eyes hovered uncertainly, shoulders tense, freckles standing out against her flushed face. 

"I already said I'm sorry," the girl said again, voice tight. "It was an accident. I didn't see you—" 

"Oh, you didn't see me? " Elora scoffed. "Right. Of course. You just happened to stumble into me like some mud-caked Kneazle." 

Polaris's expression shifted, ever so slightly — that inward flicker of alertness. 

Eliza's voice cut in — soft, crisp, and lethal. "She called you a mudblood. Just to clarify, since I've heard people like you don't get much of an education before Hogwarts. So of course it would be hard to understand." 

There was a ripple in the crowd — sharp intakes of breath, a boy's muttered "Bloody hell," someone else trying to get a better look. 

And then, right on cue, Corvus stepped forward. 

"Oh, come on ," he drawled, throwing an arm between them like he was officiating a wedding, not a brewing duel. "Let's all take a deep breath and stop threatening to eviscerate each other in public. I'm fairly sure the suits of armour are judging us." 

Willow looked at him like he'd just spat in her drink. 

"What is your problem, Avery?" 

One eyebrow lifted, as Corvus responded. "Excuse me?" 

"Did anyone ask for your commentary? Are you Parkinson's personal hype man now, or is this just your usual thing—backing up bigots and looking smug while you do it? I wouldn't be surprised." 

Corvus's easy grin faltered. " I didn't— " 

"She called my friend a mudblood, " Willow snapped, her voice rising. "You heard it. We all heard it. And you're worried about the armour judging us ?" 

"Well, technically I—" 

She cut him off, arms folded, stance daring. "But that's the thing with you, isn't it? You don't even have to like her to leap to her side. Parkinson so much as flinches and here comes Corvus, all aristocratic outrage and accidental bootlicking." 

Bastian winced. Polaris didn't move, he found himself curious how Corvus would get himself out of this, after unnecessarily joining. 

Elora's expression sharpened, icy and bright. "Excuse me?" she said, voice all velvet edges. "Corvus doesn't need to like me to recognise when someone's out of line." 

Eliza stepped forward, as calm and precise as ever. "Not everyone thrives on chaos and confrontation, you know. Some of us were taught restraint." 

"Oh, right," Willow snapped. "The sacred art of passive aggression and throwing slurs with a smile." 

Eliza's voice was cold, perfectly calm. "And you," she said to Willow, "are barely relevant. Though I suppose volume makes up for lack of position." 

Aurelia took a half-step forward, her voice cool, but biting. "You don't get to talk about relevance when your idea of conversation starts with slurs and ends in three-to-one standoffs." 

Willow's mouth twitched with a half-smirk, but her eyes didn't leave Corvus. "You're just proving my point. She drops one word and half of you go into damage control like it's a reflex." 

Corvus opened his mouth—maybe to defend himself, maybe to protest the whole circus of it—but Willow didn't give him the chance. 

"And you ," she turned, snapping her gaze to Polaris now. "Standing there like it's all beneath you. Is that how it works, then? You watch while your friends play blood politics, and say nothing until someone asks ?" 

The accusation landed, clean and pointed. 

Polaris blinked, slowly. Like he wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the crosshairs. His hold on his wand tightened. 

"Could you be more annoying?" he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, louder — quieter than Willow, but somehow more cutting for it — "If you're expecting a public apology from a Parkinson, you'll be waiting a long time." 

Willow's jaw tightened. 

Polaris tilted his head, gaze level. "Maybe focus on the actual problem you have instead of the performance." 

That hit differently. It wasn't defensive, nor was it cruel. But unbothered in a way that felt almost insulting — like he was already six moves ahead and bored of explaining it. 

Corvus, for once, didn't try say anything. Elora looked smug. Bastian gave Polaris a side glance — not judgmental, just curious because if Bastian himself were put in that situation he would have made it worse, he had no care for strangers. 

Willow stared at him, caught somewhere between insulted and thrown. 

Aurelia's eyes narrowed, watching him carefully now. 

Aurelia's eyes narrowed, watching him carefully now. She noted how calm he'd been. How carefully he'd chosen his words. How deliberately he'd avoided condemning Parkinson and Burke directly. 

She remembered — a month ago — how innocent he'd looked when he'd told her he didn't know mudblood was a slur. How genuinely confused he'd seemed, blinking at her like she was speaking a different language. 

Now? 

Now, she wasn't sure if he was still that unaware — or if he'd simply been playing the game. 

She didn't say anything to him. Not yet. But she turned her gaze sharply back to Elora and Eliza. 

"Your comments weren't needed," she said, voice firm but even. "Katie bumped into you. It was an accident. That's all it was. And instead of accepting that, you made it about power — about who belongs where." 

Elora scoffed under her breath, but Eliza didn't respond. Her arms crossed more tightly. 

Aurelia didn't stop. 

"You didn't look strong. Or clever. You looked small ." Her tone wasn't cruel, but it was pointed — matter-of-fact, like someone reading out a verdict. "Because it takes absolutely nothing to punch down." 

She stepped toward Katie, who was still frozen, wide-eyed and stiff with embarrassment. Gently, Aurelia placed a hand on her shoulder. 

"To anyone watching who actually matters — you lost the second you opened your mouth." 

Then, without another glance back, she looped her other arm around Willow and guided both girls through the thinning crowd. 

But her silence said enough. 

The crowd had mostly begun to disperse, murmuring in hushed tones, casting lingering looks after Aurelia, Willow, and Katie as they vanished around the corridor bend. 

Bastian let out a long breath through his nose and turned to Corvus. 

"That," he said, "was exhausting." 

And then, without ceremony, he reached over and smacked Corvus lightly on the back of the head. 

"Ow! What was that for?" 

"For sticking your face in a beehive no one asked you to poke." 

Corvus rubbed the back of his head, wounded. "I was de-escalating !" 

"You were escalating the escalation," Bastian muttered. "In a very loud, very Corvus way." 

Eliza huffed behind them, folding her arms in dramatic disbelief. "It wasn't our fault. She started it." 

"She bumped into me," Elora added, cool and clipped. "And then refused to leave it alone. Obviously, she was trying to provoke something." 

Polaris didn't respond. He was already walking, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. 

"Where are you going?" Elora called after him, like she was genuinely confused that he hadn't joined her in reasserting her social dominance. 

"Dinner," Polaris said, without turning around. 

Corvus's stomach gave a mournful growl. 

"Excellent idea," he muttered, quickly falling into step beside him. "Frankly, I think trauma makes me hungrier." 

"You think everything makes you hungrier," Bastian replied as he followed after them. 

Polaris didn't speak again until they were halfway down the corridor, but his tone when he did was flat, almost bored. "Next time you want to 'de-escalate,' try not standing between two girls mid-existential blood feud." 

Corvus pouted. "You're both mean when you're tired." 

"Then maybe stop dragging us into other people's duels." 

Another growl from Corvus's stomach. 

"I was trying to be noble ," he muttered. 

Bastian just shook his head. "You were trying to be seen ." 

Polaris hummed, noncommittal. Then, after a beat — too casual to be accidental: 

"I wonder what the real difference is between you and Lockhart." 

Corvus stopped walking. 

" Excuse me? " 

Polaris glanced sideways, deadpan. "He's dramatic. He inserts himself where no one asked. He thrives off attention, probably talks to mirrors when no one's around…" 

Bastian smirked. "You do talk to mirrors." 

"I'm rehearsing intimidation tactics ," Corvus snapped. "It's practice ." 

Polaris raised a brow. "Of course. And Lockhart's just manifesting his brand." 

Corvus let out an indignant noise — part gasp, part scoff. "He's a halfblood , Polaris. A halfblood who carries a mirror around like it's an heirloom and talks about his future memoirs like anyone cares. I am an Avery." 

Bastian deadpanned, "And yet, both of you use enchanted hair gel and monogram your quills." 

Corvus looked personally betrayed . "You're taking his side ?" 

"I'm taking no one's side," Bastian said with a shrug. "I just enjoy watching you implode." 

Polaris, already moving again, called over his shoulder, "You could always ask Lockhart for a signed photo. Maybe compare notes." 

"I hate both of you," Corvus grumbled, storming after them. "I am nothing like him. For starters, I'm actually dangerous. " 

"Dangerously self-involved," Polaris muttered. 

"I heard that!" 

Corvus's voice echoed down the corridor as the three of them disappeared toward the Great Hall, still bickering. 

 — ❈ — 

By the time dinner had properly settled in and the noise of the hall blurred into background chatter, Nate could already tell something was wrong. 

He always knew when there was something wrong with Willow, it was hard not to notice. He's known her for so long that every little thing was impossible to ignore and right now as they were eating dinner, she hadn't said a word, not even when Aurelia in her green sweater said a joke, that had a few of the other Gryffindors laughing. 

Willow was clearly distracted, and he didn't miss when she took a glance at Katie, Katie Goodmen one of her friends who was also suspiciously quiet. 

Too quiet. 

Willow was sat with her arms folded, eyes fixed on her plate, untouched stew going cold. 

Nate leaned toward her. "You alright?" 

She didn't answer. Didn't look at him either. Just stared at the table as if the wood grain had personally offended her. 

"Will?" he tried again. 

A beat. Then: 

"Come with me," she said, not quite a whisper. Her voice was flat, but her knuckles were white. "Now." 

Nate's brow creased, but he pushed to his feet and followed. He didn't say anything as he followed her past the long rows of students, past the curious glances and half-finished conversations, and out into the corridor beyond. 

The moment the doors shut behind them, the noise fell away. It was just the two of them now — and whatever storm she'd pulled him into. 

They ended up just off the main hall, tucked in a narrow passage near the stairs, where torchlight flickered over uneven stone and old wall hangings. 

Before he knew it, she went on a rant. 

"Basically, before we got to dinner Katie accidently bumped shoulders with Parkinson. Which resulted in Parkinson thinking the best possible solution to the apparent issue of a muggleborn touching her is calling Katie the m-word. Right to her face. In front of some of the other first years. Burke backed her up, of course. They made it sound like Katie didn't belong here. Like she was dirt. Like she wasn't—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed it. "My real issue right now is that Black was also there." 

Nate blinked slowly, at this point he's gotten used to her fast monologues. He found himself raising a brow, because it went from this that to Polaris? 

"He didn't say anything. Not really. Just did the whole I'm not going to say anything act he does. Like he was above it. Like this was some performance we were all meant to clap for." 

"Did he join in?" 

"No." Her mouth twisted. "But he didn't stop them either. He didn't say it was wrong. He just stood there with his little Ravenclaw calm and told me I was being performative ." Her face twisted in annoyance, "and that was his contribution. While Parkinson looked smug and Katie looked like she was going to cry." 

Nate frowned, he didn't say anything yet . He was trying to process what Elora was trying to get at. He looked down, thumb absently scraping his palm — a nervous tick. 

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "That happened to Katie. She didn't deserve that." 

Willow's voice was sharper now. "Obviously she didn't. No one does. But this isn't just about Katie, Nate. This is about you ." 

He looked up, even more confused now. About him ? So first it was about Parkinson and Katie... then Polaris... then to him ? 

Willow stepped closer. "I know you've been trying to get to know him, being friendly and everything. Don't think I haven't seen it. I didn't say anything because I thought maybe you'd come to your senses. That you'd see him for what he is." 

Nate's brows drew in. "What he is ?" 

"Another Black. Another pureblood boy playing neutral until it's convenient not to be. Another one of them. He thinks my kind beneath him, Nate. He's only entertaining you. He doesn't care." 

"He's not like that," Nate said — too fast, too defensive, and he knew it. "You don't even know him. All you know is his last name." 

Willow crossed her arms tighter. "And you do? Nate, we've known each other for years . You've known him for what — a month ? He didn't even stand up for Katie." 

"And you think that means he's the enemy now?" Nate's voice cracked with disbelief. "Willow, you know me. You know I care about you. But Polaris — he's not like them. Like Burke. Like Parkinson. He didn't join in . You have no idea what was going on in his head—" 

"That doesn't matter if he won't say it's wrong. Nathaniel, I want you to choose." 

He physically flinched, stepping back like she'd struck him. "Wait—what? Are you serious ?" 

Her silence was its own answer. 

"You're asking me to choose ? Between you and Polaris?" 

Still, she didn't speak. 

He stared at her, like he didn't recognise her anymore. "Willow, he didn't do anything to you." 

"He didn't do anything for me either." 

"That's not—" He stopped himself. His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "That's not fair ." 

"It's the truth." 

He hated this. Hated when she made things like this — all or nothing, right or wrong, no room to breathe in between. Every conversation had rules, and he was always the one being corrected, redirected, managed.  

Don't hang out with them, Nate. Sit here, Nate. You don't get it, Nate. Do better, Nate.  

And now — Don't be friends with him, Nate.  

He raked a hand through his hair, breath catching. "You're not listening. He's not them . Just because he's a Black doesn't mean—" 

"Doesn't it?" 

That gutted him. 

Willow didn't yell. Didn't cry. She didn't do anything. And that stillness — that cold, set look in her face — somehow made it worse. 

"He stood there while someone like Parkinson used that word," she said tightly. "And then he turned it around and made me the problem. Said I was being performative." 

"Because he doesn't know what to say to people," Nate exploded. "Because he's weird and awkward and too clever for his own good and terrible at talking to anyone about anything! But you act like that makes him evil. Or dangerous. Like he's them ." 

Willow didn't reply. 

And that silence burned.  

Nate swallowed hard. His chest hurt. He didn't know what to say to bring her back. He didn't even know how they got here. 

"I've known you since we were six," he said, barely getting the words out. "You've always had my back. And I've always had yours. But that doesn't mean I can't be friends with someone else. Especially someone who's trying." 

"He didn't try very hard." 

"He's not perfect. But he's not cruel either. You'd see that if you stopped acting like his name told you everything." 

"And you'd know how this feels," she said, her voice low and sharp, "if it had been you standing there while someone like Parkinson humiliated you. And he just watched." 

That one hit him in the lungs. 

Nate's fists curled at his sides. "So that's it?" 

"I need to know where you stand." 

"I stand with you, Will. I always have. But I won't hate him just because you told me to." 

And there it was. The line. 

Drawn. 

She stared at him. Not in anger. Not even disappointment. Just… strangeness . Like she didn't know him anymore. Like all those years — all those shared jokes, nights spent talking, arguments and making up — had folded into nothing. 

"Then I guess you've made your choice." 

"No." His voice cracked. "You're making the choice. You're just making me carry it." 

She turned. Didn't look back. 

Didn't say goodbye. 

Didn't give him the chance to fix it. 

He was frozen in place, his heart was racing, it was so loud. Too loud in fact so loud he didn't even realise he was crying in that moment. 

Nate moved to the closest wall to him closing in on it until his forehead pressed lightly against it. One hand braced beside his head. The other hung at his side, clenched tight. 

From down the hall, someone else had stopped walking. 

Polaris had only meant to pass through. 

He'd left the Great Hall early. 

He'd meant to go back to the dorms. Read his notes. Finish mapping the rune alignments he'd started that morning. 

But now he was standing ten feet away from a boy pressed to a wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. 

His Gryffindor friend. 

The one who talked too much and felt too much and had, at some point in the last few weeks, decided that Polaris was worth talking to. 

Polaris didn't move. 

He had only seen the end of it — Willow walking away fast. She saw him, he expected her to glare at him, but she didn't. She just stared for a moment before she did walk off. 

It wasn't hard to piece together. 

He stood there for maybe thirty seconds. Maybe longer. 

Eventually, he cleared his throat just to make his presence known. 

"Another argument with Smyth? At this point, might as well make it a weekly event." 

It came out lightly. Not mocking, as if it might be easier for both of them if this were routine. 

Which, maybe, it was becoming. 

Nate didn't answer. 

But his shoulders tensed — barely, but enough. 

Enough for Polaris to register that he'd been heard. 

Polaris stayed where he was for a beat longer. He found himself thinking perhaps... that was the wrong thing to say? He wasn't sure. He couldn't see Nate's face. Just the way he leaned into the stone, like he wanted to vanish into it. 

Then, after a beat, Polaris took a few slow steps forward and leaned his back against the same wall — a measured distance away, just close enough to be beside him. 

He stole a glance sideways. 

Tears. 

Not streaming, but there. Clinging to his lashes, barely caught before they fell. 

Polaris didn't say anything about them. 

He just let out a quiet sigh and, after a pause, pushed himself down, back sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the cold flagstone floor. Knees drawn up. Hands in the folds of his robes. Still. 

Polaris felt somewhat uncomfortable, awkwardly so. He was hesitant and unsure like he was enacting something he'd only read about in theory. 

He didn't know how to comfort people who cried. Was there even a right thing to say or do? He needed to read books on things like this, it seemed useful. 

The silence was so long Polaris debated taking a nap as he pressed his head against his knees. 

Somewhere down the corridor, voices echoed and faded. A suit of armour shifted its stance with a low metallic creak. 

Neither of them moved. 

And then, at last, Nate's voice — quiet. Hoarse. 

"She made me choose." 

Polaris looked over. 

Nate didn't meet his eyes. Just stared at his shoes like they were the only steady thing left. 

"Willow. She said… if I stayed friends with you, she was done." His throat worked. "She basically said she couldn't trust me anymore. That I was choosing the wrong side." 

Polaris was very still. He wasn't exactly sure what to say to that. He was confused. Willow made him choose ? Huh? Why would she do that, was Nate not allowed to have friends of his own, was he supposed to check every friend he got with her? what type of friendship was that? 

Nate pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "She's been my best friend since like forever. And I just stood there while she walked away like it was nothing." 

Polaris shifted awkwardly, "Um... I'm sure it wasn't nothing?" 

"No," Nate rasped, voice cracking, "it wasn't. She was everything. And I still couldn't say what she wanted me to." 

Polaris was silent for a long moment. Then: 

"What would she have wanted you to say?" 

Nate laughed, a bitter, broken thing. "That you're just like them. That I never should've talked to you. That your silence made you the same as Parkinson." He looked down again. "But I couldn't. Because I don't believe that." 

Polaris inhaled softly. The sound barely registered. 

He stared up at Nate, his brows furrowed he was even more confused now. Just confused in general about the whole thing. He didn't ask for any of this. 

Why would Nate do that? Why would he pick him over her? Why would he ever risk losing her just to be friends with him, when everything she said might as well be try. 

Polaris didn't exactly feel anything when Elora had called the girl a mudblood. That was certainly not the type of friend Nate would want if he confessed it now. Nate would only regret his choice, maybe even change the choice. 

A choice that hurt him, that costed him someone important in his life. 

"I didn't ask you to pick me," Polaris found himself voicing. 

"I didn't ," Nate emphasised. "I want to be friends with you and Willow, but I guess I did choose you if Willow walked away in the end." 

Polaris didn't know what to do with that, didn't know how to hold it. 

So, he said nothing. 

Just stared ahead fiddling with his shoelace. Something to distract himself with. 

Next to him, Nate exhaled. 

"You don't have to sit with me," he said after a while, voice low and frayed. "Really. I'd rather be alone." 

Polaris's mouth parted like he might argue, then didn't. "Right." 

He tried to keep his voice neutral. Though he failed. 

Nate hadn't even looked at him when he said it. 

Polaris stood up slow and hesitant like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to then he shifted awkwardly his brows furrowing as if trying to understand something. 

"Did I—" he started, then stopped. Changed the question. "Are you—mad at me?" 

Nate paused. Just for a breath. 

Then: "No. I'm just—" His jaw tightened. "I lost her. That's all." 

Just that. 

But the way he said it landed hard. 

Polaris found himself nodded once. It was a small movement. Polaris didn't like the way he said it at all. 

Because even if Nate didn't say it, Polaris felt it anyway — the unspoken weight of being the reason . The tipping point. The person someone else had to walk away from to keep him. 

He hadn't asked for that. He never would've. He's known Nate for about a month now, so he couldn't possibly comprehend why he became the reason for the friendship unravelling. Maybe it wasn't just him maybe he just helped tip it over in some way. 

Nate didn't say goodbye. Just turned and started walking, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind him. 

Polaris stood there long after he'd gone. 

Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tense. Face carefully blank. 

This was too much for one day maybe he should just go to bed early instead. He felt completely drained. 

Polaris didn't sit next to Nathaniel in class that coming week. Not because he didn't want to — they always sat together during lessons with the Gryffindors, had from the start without ever really deciding it. But now, that seat stayed empty. Or worse, someone else filled it. Nathaniel hadn't said anything — he never looked angry, never glared — but he didn't sit with Polaris either. And that said enough. 

It wasn't avoidance. Not really. Polaris knew space when he saw it. And if Nate needed it, he wasn't going to chase him through it. 

Still, he noticed things. 

He noticed the way Nate stopped talking in class. Not entirely, but the usual jokes, the commentary, the questions that derailed whole lessons — gone. It was strange to sit through Transfiguration without hearing him say something that made the professor sigh and smile at the same time. 

He wasn't smiling, either. Not the wide, ridiculous kind of grin he always wore when something went wrong, and he was pretending it didn't matter. He didn't even fake it. 

Willow wasn't much better. She sat stiff and cold and quiet. Glares were tossed like darts, mostly at Polaris, though he doubted she even registered she was doing it half the time. She looked tired. Tight around the eyes. She didn't laugh when Aurelia told a joke at lunch, didn't lean toward Katie like she used to, just sat there like she was daring someone to ask her what was wrong. 

Polaris didn't have to witness it much since the classes were over for the celebrations of Samhain. 

They were both missing each other. That much was obvious. 

And yet neither one of them acted on it. 

They passed each other in corridors like strangers. Like years of knowing each other meant nothing now. Like silence hurt less than whatever came next. 

Polaris didn't intrude. Didn't offer a comment or a question. What could he possibly say? 

Sorry I existed? 

Sorry my silence was louder than her fury? 

Sorry I stood there and said the wrong thing in the right voice? 

No. Nate had said he wasn't mad. And Polaris believed him. But that didn't mean Nate wasn't hurting. 

October 30 th , 1975, Thursday  

Polaris hesitated only a moment before raising his hand to knock. Before his knuckles even met the door, it creaked open of its own accord with a whispering sigh, as though the room had been expecting him. 

He stepped cautiously inside. 

Scrolls hovered mid-air, slowly rotating — not at random, but in deliberate spirals, as though aligned to some unseen grid. Along the stone walls, shelves bristled with tomes whose spines shimmered with etched runes, pulsing faintly under the light of hanging orb-lamps. Strange artefacts rested under enchanted glass domes: a cracked obsidian mirror that hummed softly, a set of ringed discs that shifted every time he blinked, and a silver quill suspended in midair, endlessly writing and rewriting a blank page. 

Behind the large oaken desk sat a man Polaris recognised from across the classroom but had never spoken to directly before, only seen him in passing. Professor Merrow. The professor for the Study of Ancient Runes. 

His hair was dark and long, brushing the shoulders of a fitted grey robe. His eyes — pale, l ike old glass — reflected light in a way that made them unreadable. Not distant, exactly, but not fully present either. Like someone whose thoughts remained three layers deeper than his expression. 

At the moment, those glass-clear eyes were trained on a set of floating answer parchments, one of which he corrected with a quick flick of his wand. Red ink bloomed like spreading moss. 

He glanced up only briefly. 

"Well?" 

That was Polaris's cue. 

He stepped forward and bowed his head with precision — not deeply, but just enough to suggest pureblood etiquette rather than performance. 

"Polaris Black, sir. First-year. Ravenclaw," he added, although he doubted it was necessary. 

Professor Merrow didn't respond immediately. Another correction. Another flick of the wand. The man made a humming sound in his throat — thoughtful or dismissive, it was hard to tell. 

"You're aware Ancient Runes isn't offered until third year," Professor Merrow said flatly, eyes not yet leaving the parchment he was correcting. 

"Yes, I'm aware, Professor," Polaris said. "I've just always had a passing interest in runes. I thought it preferable to speak with someone qualified rather than misinterpret three contradictory translations." 

That made the man pause. 

He set the test script gently on his desk, finally lifting his gaze to fully meet Polaris's. There was something in those eyes — not quite surprise, but a tilt toward interest. 

"Efficient," Merrow echoed. "That's not a word most first-years favour." 

Professor Merrow regarded him for another long moment. Then, with a lazy flick of his wand, a chair scraped itself out from the side wall and floated over, placing itself neatly in front of the desk. 

"Sit, then," the professor said, as if Polaris had taken far too long to get to the point of being seated. 

Polaris inclined his head — not quite a bow, but close — and lowered himself into the chair, posture straight and attentive. 

"Is it possible for runes to respond to a specific magical signature — like a wand, or a bloodline?" Polaris began, getting straight to the point. 

Merrow had now fully abandoned his test-correcting. He leaned on his desk, chin in one hand, elbow propped like he had all the time in the world. 

"Wand or bloodline," Merrow echoed. "Both are viable keys — if the runes were crafted with specificity. The older the magic, the more likely it is to recognise essence-based inputs. A wand, for instance, carries magical memory. If someone built a cipher to respond to a particular wand — or to the soulprint of the person who wielded it — the effect would look exactly like what you're describing." 

Polaris shifted slightly in the chair, notebook resting on his lap. 

"So… it's not common, but it is possible." 

"Common? No," Merrow said, amused. "Wand-specific runic response is advanced enchantment. Difficult. Dangerous if done poorly. But yes — possible. Especially if the wand in question was crafted with soul resonance in mind." 

Polaris's fingers twitched faintly in his lap. 

"What about marginalia?" he asked carefully. "Runes hidden in the margins of an existing text. Not carved, but… magically impressed. Faint. Submerged beneath the paper. That kind of thing." 

Professor Merrow's expression sharpened — not alarmed, just interested . Like a dog catching a familiar scent. 

"Ah. Now there's a technique," he said, voice almost indulgent. "Marginalia that doesn't exist in ink but in impression — you're describing resonant residue scripting. Not common, and certainly not Ministry-approved these days." 

He tapped a long finger against his desk as he spoke, as if measuring the shape of the words. 

"It's a technique used for embedding magic into the page, not just on it. Requires intent, a specialised wand, and usually a stabilising medium — soul residue in rare cases, emotional imprinting in others. Rather delicate. The best versions remain completely invisible until triggered." 

"Triggered?" Polaris asked. 

"Mm. Yes — sometimes by contact. Sometimes by alignment ." He gestured vaguely, now clearly in his element. "Motion-based triggers. Rune-linked casting sequences. I once saw a Defence manuscript that only revealed its true content when the reader drew the Tiwaz arc into the air and whispered the reversed name of the caster who wrote it. Beautifully overengineered nonsense." 

That made Polaris sit a little straighter. 

"Motion-based… like casting the shape of the rune?" 

"Precisely," Merrow said, utterly unbothered by how off-track he'd gone. "Though that sort of thing requires an exceptional wand bond. And, of course, the runes themselves have to be encoded with receptive structure — otherwise it's just waving a stick at paper." 

"Could they respond only to one wand?" Polaris asked. "One magical signature?" 

Merrow gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. 

"If the author was paranoid, yes. Or sentimental. I've seen love letters built that way, and also last wills. Family seals too, especially among pureblood archives. Layered cipher on top of soul-bound resonance. Bloody mess to untangle, but effective." 

Polaris paused, thinking. 

"So, the motion unlocks the rune. The wand carries the key. And the page holds the lock." 

Merrow raised a brow. "A rather elegant way of putting it, Mr Black." 

Then, with a flick of his fingers: 

"But all theory, of course. You wouldn't be trying to unlock anything at your age." Professor Merrow's pale eyes narrowed slightly — not with suspicion, exactly, but curiosity. "Though I must ask why, exactly, is a first-year with no formal study in Ancient Runes asking about marginalia, soul-resonant signatures, and rune-triggered activation?" 

Polaris hesitated for only a breath — not long enough to look uncertain, just long enough to choose his words. 

"Because you're the only professor whose name comes up in discussions involving rune-laced soul theory and magical linguistics," he said smoothly. "I read your abstract in the back of Transitive Spell Forms and the Philosophy of Pattern . You worked for the Department of Mysteries, didn't you?" 

That did it. The amusement in Merrow's face shifted — still faint but touched now with something sharper. Polaris could almost see the man recalibrating him, slotting him into a different column. 

"I did," Merrow said slowly. "Linguistic Arcana Division. Cryptology, soul-sequencing, memory locks. Some of us went mad with theory. I made it out with my spine intact, if not my sleep." 

He gave a wry smile, rubbing his temple absently. 

"The Ministry has no patience for people who believe language and memory can be the same thing. Or that a rune could remember a death." 

"Can they?" Polaris asked, his voice soft — more like bait than inquiry. 

Merrow tilted his head. "Some things remember better than the people who cast them." 

Polaris inclined his head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "Fascinating. I was only curious because you are fascinating, sir." 

At that, Merrow blinked — once, slowly — then gave a soft, dry laugh. 

"Slytherin," he said mildly. 

Polaris didn't correct him. 

The professor leaned back again, this time less performative, more thoughtful. For a moment, the scholarly mask slipped — not gone, but relaxed. 

"Well. You're not enrolled in my class. But when you are — if you are — I suspect you'll be more interesting than most of the half-asleep Ravenclaws who only want to learn how to carve love charms without accidentally binding themselves to a turnip." 

He gave a soft sigh, almost fond. 

"Still," he added, glancing at the clockwork sphere ticking on his wall, "tomorrow is Samhain. Surely you have something better to do than pepper an old man about runes and soulprints?" 

"I'm making something," Polaris said, just a touch defensive. "For the altars." 

"Mm. Good." Merrow's tone shifted — still light, but with a thread of something older in it. "I'll be honouring my late uncle. He raised me more than my father did. Gave me my first wand — and my first curse when I used it on his shoes." 

His smile ghosted away again, quieter now. 

"There are altars for each of the five elements. Choose carefully — the essence matters more than the craftsmanship." 

Polaris nodded. "That's what they said." 

Merrow waved a hand, like dismissing smoke. "Yes, well, they're right for once. Take your clever little notebook and go make something of it." 

"Five points to Ravenclaw," Merrow added absently, almost as an afterthought. "For... curiosity. The real kind." 

He didn't look up when he said it, but Polaris felt the weight of the gesture anyway. 

Polaris stood. 

"Thank you, Professor." 

"If your curiosity returns," Merrow said without looking up, already returning to his inked scripts, "I'll gladly answer your questions, it's not often you see a first year with this much interest in runes." 

A flick of his wand, and the door creaked back open behind Polaris. 

"Blessed Samhain." 

"May your spirits walk gently." Polaris responded, the words coming instinctively, respectfully. 

The door closed sharply behind him, faster than it had opened. 

He walked slowly. Perhaps too slowly — people were eager to pass him in the corridors, brushing past with a rushed "Excuse me", and one upper-year even muttered, "Bloody first-years," as they swept by in a flurry of robes and gold-threaded sleeves. 

Somewhere up ahead, a pair of third-years were whispering excitedly as they turned the corner — robes trailing, arms bumping with how animated their gestures were. 

"—and then Baird actually caught it one-handed. Like—full dive, broom spinning, didn't even slow down!" 

"No way. The Cannons were ahead for, like, half the match!" 

"Yeah, and then they Cannoned it up." 

A round of snorting laughter. 

"I swear, it's cursed. My dad says if they ever win a match without collapsing halfway through, the world will end." 

Polaris barely noticed. His thoughts weren't in the hall. 

They were circling. 

The motion unlocks the rune. The wand carries the key. And the page holds the lock.  

The words haunted him — not in a bad way, but in the way a melody lodges itself in your mind and won't leave until you hum it aloud. He kept turning it over, chewing at the logic and the implications, eyes fixed ahead but seeing parchment, not stone walls. 

Polaris turned the corner. 

And immediately had to duck. 

Something small and glittering shot past his ear — it whooshed through the air, spinning wildly, and embedded itself into a tapestry with a soft pop. A second followed, then a third — now he could see what it was, ink balloons. Transfigured from old potion flasks, judging by the sharp clink when one hit the floor and burst into a foul-smelling cloud of purple. 

Overhead, Peeves hovered, cackling and twirling upside down like a bat in mid-fall, a quill tucked behind one ear and a long scroll of names in one hand — most of them with slashes or X's drawn through them. 

"Perfect aim, perfect crime, Peevesy strikes for the ninety-ninth time!" he sang. "And next up—ah! Miss Twigglesnout with the squeaky shoes! Prepare thineself for purple doom!" 

He raised a loaded flask over his head dramatically, winding up like a Beater before a Bludger— 

Then stopped. 

Mid-air. 

Mid-pose. 

His eyes had locked on Polaris. 

But Polaris didn't look up. 

He'd paused just inside the corridor, gaze low, fixated not on the poltergeist above but on the spreading puddles and shards on the stone floor. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face — not at Peeves, but at the ink blot that had splattered a nearby textbook lying abandoned beside a bench. 

He adjusted the strap of his bag and glanced vaguely upward, only now noticing the vague shape of something leaving — a blur of motion disappearing through the far wall. Peeves was already gone. 

What Polaris didn't see — couldn't — was the sudden stillness that had overtaken the poltergeist. The frozen expression, the tilt of his head, the wild grin falling flat into something unreadable. His eyes had narrowed as if trying to place something, or feel it. 

Then they'd widened, startled. The flask slipped from his fingers, shattering quietly on the floor. 

And Peeves fled without a sound. 

Behind him, half-sheltered behind a gargoyle pedestal, two second-years emerged. They'd been crouched to watch the prank unfold. 

"What the bloody —?" 

"He never just leaves ," the girl whispered, clearly annoyed. "It was about to land right on her head! Why did he stop?" 

"I dunno. Did you see his face though? He looked like he saw a Dementor. But like... in reverse ." 

"I wanted to see Twigglesnout shriek," she muttered. "Ruined it." 

Polaris kept walking, thoughts layered too thickly to make room for anything else. 

He was meant to be heading toward the designated Samhain room — the one Professor Sprout had quietly announced during lunch a few days ago. 

"As the veil thins, and we honour those who've passed, students are invited to make or conjure a token for the school altars. A drawing, a small sculpture, a word, a memory. Something that speaks to what they left behind in you."  

He needed to make something for his late great aunt; well, he wanted to . He'd almost turned on his heel more than once. He could have returned to his dormitory, locked the curtain, pulled out the book and the wand, and begun testing what Merrow had said. He wanted to. 

So badly.  

But his feet kept walking — too slow to be decisive, too fast to be called aimless. 

His fingers tightened slightly around his wand where it sat in his robe. It all felt so complicated . Like he was standing at the edge of something—no, not standing. Digging. 

"He didn't just write it," Polaris murmured to himself. "He buried it. And the wand—his wand—chose me to dig it up."  

He could feel the tension pulling inside his chest. The want to know. The ache to try . He didn't know what he was chasing, not exactly. 

But he knew it was real.  

And he knew it was his.  

A sudden thud broke through the spiral of thought. 

Corvus had bumped straight into him — nearly knocking them both sideways. 

"Bloody hell, where were you floating off to?" Corvus said, straightening himself. "You've got that look again. The one that says you haven't blinked in ten minutes." 

Polaris blinked, realising he was right. 

"I was thinking." 

"Obviously," Corvus muttered, then grabbed his sleeve. "C'mon. You're coming with me. If I've got to sit in a room and try to make something heartfelt without accidentally setting it on fire, you're doing it with me." 

Polaris opened his mouth to argue — and closed it again. He didn't stop Corvus from dragging him along. 

The designated Samhain room was on the fourth floor, just past a shifting tapestry that revealed a stone arch only when someone whispered, "For those who came before."  

It was larger than Polaris expected — long rows of wooden tables, jars of ink and parchment stacked in neat clusters, quiet flickering torches affixed to the walls. Some tables had trays of materials: carved bone beads, pressed flower petals, bits of thread, and shimmer-dusted paper. 

Dozens of students filled the space already — scattered across years and houses. Mostly purebloods, a few half-bloods. The handful of Muggleborns present hovered near the back, whispering among themselves, puzzled but trying. A few glanced around with uncertain expressions, clearly expecting jack-o'-lanterns or floating pumpkins. 

"I thought Halloween was meant to be spooky," one whispered. 

"It's not Halloween, it's Samhain — properly." 

A sign on the far wall shimmered faintly with handwritten guidance: 

Samhain Offerings – Guidelines 

• No living materials (no cutting live plants or animals) 

• Must be no larger than a handspan 

• Charms and Transfiguration allowed — but essence matters more than flair 

• Names may be spoken aloud or held in silence 

• Altars represent the five elements — choose where your memory belongs 

Corvus and Polaris found a quiet place near the back. 

Corvus dropped into his seat with a heavy sigh. "I hate this. Not this this—" he gestured vaguely to the room, "—but the part where I'm supposed to know what to feel." 

Polaris didn't say anything. He simply pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward himself and began to draw. 

He already knew what he would make. 

A flower. Not real — a drawn one. Thin ink lines, precise but soft. The petals curled like moonlight caught mid-bloom, the edges gently open, as though listening. 

Moonlace.  

Cassiopeia had loved flowers. She'd kept a greenhouse at the edge of the family property in Wiltshire; one she granted by her cousin, Polaris' grandfather Arcturus. He still remembered the way her hand wrapped around his when they walked through it — how the scent of the blossoms always lingered on her sleeves. 

The moonlace bloomed under starlight, like her — quiet and bright when the rest of the world fell still. It released its fragrance only when the world was silent enough to notice. And it opened for those who spoke gently. 

Just like she did. 

Polaris worked in silence. The strokes of his quill were steady, his wand resting beside the parchment as if watching. He wasn't thinking about flair. Or points. Or the few Muggleborns at the back wondering aloud whether they could "just enchant some glitter." 

He was thinking about her. 

About how she never once raised her voice. About how she bent to his level, always, even when he asked questions. How she spoke to him like he mattered. 

He missed her. 

Across the table, Corvus still hadn't started anything. 

His parchment was blank, untouched. He tapped his quill lightly against the edge, the rhythm uneven — like his thoughts were trying to find a pattern and kept missing it. His eyes had a tightness to them that Polaris recognised but didn't name. That quiet frustration of someone who wanted to feel something but didn't know how to reach it. 

Eventually, Corvus leaned slightly forward, gaze drifting to the parchment in front of Polaris. 

"Which altar are you going to?" he asked. 

Polaris didn't look up as he added a final curve to one of the petals. "Spirit," he said simply. 

Corvus nodded once. "Yeah… yeah, that fits. It looks—" he hesitated, then gave a small exhale. "It looks real. Like it could get up and breathe on its own." 

Polaris glanced at him, just briefly. "Thank you." 

There was a beat of silence. 

Then Polaris set his quill down and turned the question gently back. 

"Do you know what you're going to make? For your parents?" 

Corvus stiffened slightly — not in anger, but in that way someone does when a question lands just a little too close to the chest. His fingers tapped a few more times, then stopped. 

"I… thought I could," he admitted, voice lower. "I thought coming here would make it feel obvious, you know? Something small, something nice. But—" he shook his head. "Being here, now… I'm not sure anymore." 

He looked down at the blank page. 

"I never knew them," he said. "Not really. There are stories, sure. Pictures. But none of it is mine. Not in the way you have your aunt. I don't have anything I can… miss ." 

Polaris didn't offer any platitude. He just listened — the way his late aunt had once listened to him, in that greenhouse thick with scent and stillness. 

"Then maybe," Polaris said slowly, "make something for what you wish you had. Not what's gone. But what should've been." 

Corvus tilted his head slightly. 

"That's allowed?" 

"There aren't rules for grief," Polaris murmured. "Only guidelines I guess." 

Corvus gave a soft huff — but it wasn't sarcastic. It was the kind of sound people made when they didn't know how to say thank you. 

Corvus's parchment still sat mostly empty, save for a few scribbled words at the top corner: light , laughter , hollow . He hadn't told Polaris what they meant yet. Maybe he didn't know himself. 

He'd started a second column, too — just titles: "figure", "lantern", "thread?" with a looping question mark that had been traced and retraced. 

He was frowning, caught somewhere between frustrated and tired, when the sound of footsteps made both boys look up. 

Two older girls approached from further down the room — one with loose curls bouncing around her shoulders, the other moving like her steps had been rehearsed. 

Aura Avery reached their table first. 

She looked like a softened version of Corvus — the same blue eyes, though hers were a shade lighter, touched with green; the same curl to her brown hair, though hers was lighter, and curled in that effortless way that only came from effort. She wore a soft, moss-green knit jumper under her cloak, the sleeves slightly oversized, the cuffs pushed up to her forearms. Her expression brightened as soon as she saw the boys. 

"Well, look at you two. How wholesome," she said lightly, ignoring the way Corvus immediately groaned and dropped his quill. 

"What do you want?" he muttered. 

"To check on my favourite cousin, obviously," she said sweetly, then nodded to Polaris. "Hello, Polaris." 

"Aura," Polaris returned, quieter but with familiarity. He had always liked her — there was something open in her face that most Slytherins didn't allow. Something earned , not flaunted. 

Trailing just behind Aura was a taller girl with silver-blonde hair pulled back in a braid so precise it might as well have been wand-woven. Celeste Mulciber moved like the room already belonged to her. She didn't smile but offered a nod — more courteous than warm — as she hovered beside Aura. 

"You're still just watching your parchment?" Aura said to Corvus, one brow raised. "Don't tell me you've been here for twenty minutes and haven't even started." 

"I have started," Corvus replied defensively, jabbing his quill toward the mess of ideas. "I'm brainstorming." 

"It looks like the inside of a quill threw up," she said, peering over his shoulder. 

"You could leave now." 

"I could," Aura said, entirely unbothered. "But I won't." 

She pulled a chair closer with the tip of her wand and sat beside him. 

Celeste, meanwhile, remained standing — arms folded — gaze flicking between their work. She said nothing, but Polaris could tell she was assessing everything. 

"What are you making?" Corvus asked finally, already regretting it. 

"For your parents?" Aura asked, a little softer now. "Yes. Something small. I remember that there was a music box in Uncle Aurelian's study, do you remember? The one with the forget-me-not inlaid on the lid?" 

He gave her a slow, uncertain blink. "...No?" 

"Well, it used to hum when the room got too quiet. I remember it. You were still in nappies," she added, nudging him gently with her elbow. "I'm trying to recreate a version of that. A charm to hum — not a tune, just a note. Something soft. I think they would've liked that." 

There was a pause. 

Corvus looked away. "...I didn't know they had a music box." 

Aura's smile dimmed — just for a second. "I'll show you sometime." 

Then, before the silence could settle too thickly, Celeste spoke. 

"I'm making something for my mother," she said, calmly. "A pressed rune. Etched with the initials she used when she was still a poet, before she married into my father's name. She said once that she only felt like herself when no one knew who she was." 

Polaris looked up at that. There was something striking in the way she said it — like every syllable had been polished before she let it go. 

"You're doing it in gold ink?" Aura asked, glancing toward the thin slip of parchment Celeste had tucked into her sleeve. 

"Gold, and iron powder," Celeste replied. "Old combination. Stabilises memory-bound charms. My brother helped me calculate the thread count." 

"That sounds awful," Corvus muttered. 

"Efficiency often does," Celeste said, without missing a beat. 

Aura grinned. "You'll get used to her. She doesn't bite. Much." 

Corvus snorted, but Polaris noticed — he hadn't brushed Aura off again. He was still looking at the blank page. Still thinking. 

Aura nudged the quill closer to him. 

"You don't need a memory," she said softly. "Just a reason." 

Corvus didn't look at her. 

But this time, he did pick up the quill.